


Cope

by catchsparks



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchsparks/pseuds/catchsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Percy." She means it as a warning, but her voice is too scratchy to be firm, like she's been screaming all night. Maybe she has. She can't remember the details of the dream, just the suffocating void of Tartarus pressing against her chest. It's been five years, and sometimes she feels like they're still down there, clinging to each other against the push and pull of Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cope

Annabeth jolts awake, her heel catching Percy's shin as her limbs jerk involuntarily and her eyes snap open to the almost pitch black of their bedroom. She waits, steadying her breathing and willing the tremble the nightmare has left for her to subside, but it's too late; he's awake, propping himself on one elbow as he makes the effort to assess the situation in the dark.

It's not the skills of a trained warrior that make him a light sleeper - she's pretty sure Percy could sleep through everything short of the minotaur actually crashing into their bedroom - but rather an internal alarm he has that puts him on high alert if she so much as frowns in her sleep. It’s annoying as much as it is endearing.

"I'm okay," she mumbles as his palm slides across her back and over a scar along her ribs to her stomach. "Go back to sleep."

He doesn't speak, but rather sidles closer to her through the mess of sheets that have bunched between them in the night. His lips find the crown of her head, and she feels his fingers start to work through her curls as he lays his head against his arm, eyes still on her through the impossible darkness of the room.

"Percy." She means it as a warning, but her voice is too scratchy to be firm, like she's been screaming all night. Maybe she has. She can't remember the details of the dream, just the suffocating void of Tartarus pressing against her chest. It's been five years, and sometimes she feels like they're still down there, clinging to each other against the push and pull of Death.

"Annabeth," he mocks, but his voice is gentle, soft with sleep and what she knows is an unrelenting concern.

She huffs in annoyance, flipping herself onto her back and staring at the ceiling. He means well, and she knows it's probably the most selfish thing on earth that she's irritated at him for caring, but sometimes she just wants to him to let it go, let her work through it herself and fall back asleep without feeling like a damsel in distress. She knows Percy sees her as anything but someone to save, but it doesn't stop her sub-conscious from picking at her.

He untangles his fingers from her hair, moving his free hand to rest against her collarbone. His fingers circle patterns over the dips in her clavicle, lightly enough that he gives her goosebumps. She forgets about the weight on her chest and focuses only on his fingers, callused and strong from training. They travel down through the valley between her breasts and past her navel, settling on her hip bone. Percy circles and scrapes, like he's communicating with her in his own little language, and Annabeth closes her eyes, thinking only about what his hands can do to her.

He carries on for a couple of minutes, lazily drawing and curling his fingers across her skin, until a yawn forces him to pull away to cover his mouth and her eyes open again, narrowing at the silhouette of him. He's rubbing his eyes and pushing the hair from his face, completely oblivious to the holes she's attempting to bore into his skull for no other reason than she's suddenly turned on and his attention is elsewhere. She wonders if it was intentional as she thinks to the amount of times a nightmare has turned into a mess of frantic and tangled limbs sliding and pressing against each other. It's probably not the most normal or healthy way to deal with the scars they've been left with, but it's what works for them and Annabeth doesn't think there's too many self-help books or pamphlets on how to cope with surviving Tartarus out there seeing as it's not exactly something most demigods live to talk about, much less publish literature in regards to.

She huffs again and feels Percy chuckle quietly.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" she says pointedly, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes have adjusted more, and she can see him out of the corner of her eye.

"The dream," he prods, toes nudging against her calf, like he's reminding her she practically kicked him awake.

She thinks about pushing her heel against his ankle, where she knows he's sporting a bruise from a sparring match with Clarisse from the weekend, but she softens instead as he rests his chin against her shoulder. His breath tickles her ear, and she has to force herself not to shiver.

"I don't really remember it," she answers honestly. "I just know it wasn't pleasant."

"Were we there?" He asks, and she notices the way he avoids the word, making the question as vague as he can. They've both learned long ago how much power words can hold, and she wonders if something is fresh on his mind that keeps him from saying it.

"Aren't we always?" It comes off dryer than she intends and she feels him still beside her, judging her mood. She waits for him to pry more, but finds his lips against hers instead. He’s gentle at first, almost timid, in the way he shifts his weight so that he’s on top of her. His lips carve a path from her jawline to her neck, down to where his fingers had been concentrated before and she shivers as his teeth replace his tongue. 

It takes Percy all of two seconds to hook his fingers through her underwear, pulling the material roughly down her legs. She wants to glare at him, tell him to be more careful or he’ll rip them, but he sinks his head between her thighs and all she can do is bite her lip and taste the sea.

When she’s had more than she can take, she threads her fingers through his hair - always messy, but even more so now - and pulls at him, until he crawls his way back up her body. Annabeth guides him into her, and she wonders as she wraps her legs around him, digging her heels in for good measure, when he changed from the awkward, fumbling boy who blushed at the sight of her bra strap to this strong, beautiful man whispering things in her ear that make her crazy as he drives into her.

Percy’s fingers dance between them, and she can’t contain the cry it induces, but the noise he makes as she comes is so raw, so guttural that she begs him for more even though she’s sure she’s going to explode at any moment.

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her to him as he laughs, short bursts of breaths against her neck. Annabeth’s trembling, but the nightmare has long been buried, and she folds herself into him, smiling at his goofy elation like it’s their first time all over again and they don’t have five years of this between them.

“You’re a good guy, you know that?” she murmurs sleepily into his chest. His fingers stop their circling along the small of her back, and she knows she’s struck a chord, touched on some niggling insecurity he hasn’t voiced, but they resume their patterns soon after and he presses his lips to her forehead.

She knows he’ll ask about it again in the morning, but for now his breaths are even and he’s falling back asleep, and Annabeth thinks maybe the nightmares aren’t all bad if this is how she gets to cope with them, wrapped in the arms of a boy turned hero.


End file.
